


Joy (To The World 🥂)

by theycallmeDernhelm (onyourleft084)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst Lite™, Christmas fic, Christmas rom com tropes, First Christmas, Flashbacks, Gen, Love Confessions, M/M, Slow Burn, Unresolved Issues, a fic with the slightest semblance of plot, all fluff, but what’s new in this fandom, gift delivery run, holiday fic, holiday preparations, i promise this is all getting somewhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:07:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21906454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onyourleft084/pseuds/theycallmeDernhelm
Summary: The holidays are a time for family.Or, an angel and a demon try to start some traditions of their own. An incident from Christmas past directly affects Christmas present. And oh, don’t get me started on what this means for Christmas future.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 70





	1. Chapter 1

**December 20th, 2016**

“Warlock, sweetie, will you stop fidgeting?”

“Mom, I’m bored and this is stupid. Can’t I open my presents yet?”

“No Warlock, what did I tell you? We don’t open presents till Christmas. Now please, son, behave.”

Warlock pouted at his father and slumped in his mother’s lap, prompting a sigh from Harriet. Seriously, what had happened? One moment her eight year old was a wide-eyed little wonder, all excitement and eagerness to help trim the tree and stuff stockings, but the moment they’d tried to wrangle the boy into their annual Christmas family photo, it seemed as if all Hell had broken loose. (Not that Warlock was actually capable of that yet, of course.) He’d whined, thrown a tantrum, complained about his Christmas outfit, and was now acting out, upset at the thought of having to sit still for one moment so they could get a picture. Harriet tried to restrain his arms as her husband attempted to hold down the boy’s legs, and both of them were aware of the photographer’s waning patience. These people were paid by the hour, after all.

Harriet was seriously considering letting him have one present, just one, when a firm voice cut across the faint Christmas music and smell of nutmeg.

“Warlock. Do as your father tells you. Sit properly, now.”

The eight year old boy instantly sat up straight, brushing his long hair out of his eyes as a slim red-haired woman dressed entirely in black entered the room. She wore a pair of sunglasses even indoors, but there was no mistaking the look she was giving Warlock through the dark lenses.

“Yes, Nanny,” he said, almost obediently.

Nanny Ashtoreth quirked a sharp grin at him. “There’s a good lad.”

“That’s perfect,” sighed the photographer contentedly. “Everybody smile!”

Warlock was about to make a face, but at a single raised eyebrow from his nanny, instantly thought better of it.

He smiled, and the picture came out perfect. Just the way his parents wanted.

“Oh, thank God,” sighed Tad, visibly wiping the sweat from his brow as the brief photo session ended. “See, hon? That wasn’t so bad.”

Harriet resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Once again Tad had emerged from an ordeal quite pleased with himself despite doing the bare minimum. As Warlock slipped off her lap, Harriet called to the nanny.

“Thank you, Miss Ashtoreth. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

“Perish under the iron fist of the Prince of Darkness, ma’am,” smiled the nanny fondly.

“Ahah, yes. Wait, what?”

But Warlock was already grabbing her attention. “Nanny, my collar itches, it’s been itching all day!”

“Oh dear.” Miss Ashtoreth looked up at Harriet and smiled again, “Now do run off and see to the rest of the preparations, Mrs. Dowling. I’ll keep an eye on our boy.” She set about adjusting Warlock’s collar as Harriet bustled off, relieved.

“You know,” said a familiar, deep voice from behind Ashtoreth, “I thought your job was to influence him toward evil, not ask him to behave.”

“Ah,” said the nanny, straightening haughtily. “Brother Francis.”

“You seem surprised to see me.” The old gardener’s eyes twinkled.

“I am surprised to see you here, inside the house. I didn’t think they’d let you in, with all the dirt you track around.”

Warlock chuckled, reminding them that he was still there. “I’m glad you’re here, Brother Francis!” He gave him a tight hug, short thin arms trying to wrap around a plump middle.

“Master Warlock, merry Christmas,” chuckled Francis fondly. “You know, I came round to give you something before I leave for the holidays.”

Warlock’s eyes lit up. “You got me a present? Sweet!”

Miss Ashtoreth tried not to cringe as the gardener produced, with an unnecessarily flamboyant flourish, a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with a gold ribbon. Warlock clutched at it eagerly.

“Ah, ah,” admonished Francis gently. “We don’t open presents until Christmas, lad. Yes, you must wait! Patience is a virtue.”

“Bugger that,” said Miss Ashtoreth. She flashed sharp teeth at Warlock, “You can go right ahead and open it, love. Go on.”

“Are you sure?” said Warlock, eyeing the package.

“Of course! It’s yours, isn’t it? Why should someone like you have to wait to take what’s rightfully theirs? Anyway,” added Miss Ashtoreth, “I’m sure Brother Francis won’t mind.”

The gardener looked rather huffy. “No, in fact I do mind, Miss Ashtoreth. Warlock must wait until tomorrow. He should listen to his parents when— “

“Oh, wow!” exclaimed Warlock, pulling the present out of its wrapping. “Wait— what is this?”

He was holding a rather clunky looking hunk of cheap plastic and metal. Even Francis couldn’t maintain the upset, annoyed look on his face, and instead broke out into a smile.

“It’s an instant camera,” he explained. “It works on rolls of film. Do you like it?”

Warlock was already holding it up, peering through the viewfinder. “I love it!”

* * *

  
**December 1st, 2019**

The world’s major religions celebrate approximately 20 holidays from the beginning of November to about mid-January. Among the most widely-observed, of course, is Christmas- despite this designated ‘holiday season’ occurring on the calendar nowhere near the actual date of the birth of Christ. And if you think this time of year is busy for the average mortal, wait until you hear what Heaven and Hell are up to.

Angels often worked harder and with more pressure during the Christmas season. Every year for centuries Aziraphale remembered being summoned back to heaven for the Great Holiday Brief and given an assignment that kept him busy throughout Advent - usually to do with humans, spreading peace and goodwill and all that great stuff until they were seen safely into the new year. Crowley, on the other hand, was always off with the other demons spreading chaos and disaster. A highly anticipated holiday steeped in consumerism and indulgence? It was the perfect opportunity to bring out the worst in people, whether they were stuck in traffic or doing last-minute shopping or arguing with relatives over dinner, and everyone knows that the more you expect of something, the harder it hits when it disappoints you.

It was the only time when they didn’t bother to swap assignments- Aziraphale liked being directly involved in human holiday traditions and Crowley equally loved ruining them- but every year, in their own version of a Christmas truce, Crowley would show up at the bookshop on Christmas morning with a box of sweets for the angel, and Aziraphale would hand him a bottle of liquor (with a tartan-patterned ribbon round the neck), and they’d wish each other well, and Crowley would drive off and they’d conveniently, respectfully stay out of each others’ way until after New Year. Even so, this ‘tradition’ wasn’t always observed; there was the period of time where they weren’t talking after their St. James Park argument, and the time that Crowley had decided to sleep for a whole century, and of course their years undercover at the Dowlings’- technically, they’d been working then, and in close proximity too. (Very close proximity.)

Of course now, like everything else after they’d thwarted the apocalypse, things were going to be different.

Crowley was the first to call, and when his angel answered the phone, he merely blurted out, “I didn’t get an assignment.”

“I thought not,” said Aziraphale patiently, not bothering with a _Mr. Fell speaking, how may I help you?_ “Neither did I.”

“So that must really mean they’re done with us, then. We’re retired.”

“Or unemployed, depending how you look at it.”

“Yeah— look, my point is, this year is the first year you and I aren’t busting our arses trying to ruin the season for people- or trying to save it, or whatever you were off doing. In fact, this is the first year we aren’t doing anything at all.”

Aziraphale smiled, knowing Crowley couldn’t see him. “What are you suggesting?”

He delighted in the stutter that crept into Crowley’s voice over the receiver. “S-suggesting? I’m not— what did you think I—“

“What was your point, dear?”

“My point is that since we’re not doing anything,” groaned Crowley, “we can do whatever we want.”

“Right.” Aziraphale tucked the phone more snugly under his ear. “So, d’you want to spend Christmas at mine, then? Or whichever,” he added. “There are many other splendid holidays to celebrate, after all.

He listened to Crowley stutter and stammer and short-circuit for a good five or six seconds before managing something coherent. “Um, Christmas sounds fine. Let’s, uh, let’s start with that.”

“Lovely,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley heard a smile in his voice. “Was there anything you wanted to do, then? Anything at all? Oh wait- is there anything you want?”

“Not really. Not a lot you can get for a demon who has everything,” Crowley chuckled, relaxing a little. “The usual will do. What about you?”

“Honestly, I do miss your chocolate boxes. The usual will be fine.” The angel cleared his throat, “I can...make Christmas dinner?”

“Sounds good. I’ll help.”

“That would be nice. Right then—“

“Hang on,” said Crowley, actually clutching at his receiver as if the phone line was a physical cord that he could use to hold onto Aziraphale. “You know, I was thinking of getting Warlock something, you know, from his old nanny— and I haven’t really...well, I know we looked after the kid for like six years, but I’m, uh, I can’t think what to get him this year...D’you think you could—“

Aziraphale chuckled again. “Crowley, did I ever tell you how sweet you are?”

“Angel,” groaned Crowley. “For fuck’s sake.”

“You really are, my dear. No sense in denying it. And yes, I will help you find something for our boy.” He paused. “Why not go all the way, then? Get something for Adam. And something nice for Mr. Shadwell and Madame Tracy.”

Crowley shrugged, even if he knew Azirapahale couldn’t see him. “I usually drop a fat envelope of cash and a bottle of whiskey off at Shadwell’s.”

“You don’t, really?” exclaimed Aziraphale. “I’ve been doing that too, for years!” They burst into laughter at that.

“We’ve spoiled him,” Crowley said. “Like a cat that wanders out of the house and into the neighbor’s yard—“

“Meows at the door like it’s not been fed, and the kindly couple inside gives it something to eat—“

“—then goes back to its own home in time for dinner!” Crowley was doubled over with mirth.

“Honestly, how did we not catch on that our reliable human agent was the same one?” sighed Aziraphale. “I suppose that only gives us more reason to send him something special this year. A bit of an apology for dragging him into all that Armageddon mess, if it helps.”

Crowley barely caught the last part of the sentence. He’d just about zoned out, enjoying listening to Aziraphale’s voice, if not his words.

“Mm. Yeah, okay,” he said finally. “Bit of Christmas shopping then, and we can talk about what else you wanna do.”

“I’d like that.” The angel sounded like he really did.

They hung up, with a little resistance, each waiting for the other to end the call first, but even when he’d put the phone down Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile and wiggle, just a little bit, with excitement.

Christmas with Crowley. Now wouldn’t that be something.   


* * *

  
The following week Crowley picked Aziraphale up, and they drove (well, rocketed at full speed, more like) to the shops to embark on the perilous journey of obtaining a present for their godchild. Once they started, however, it seemed difficult to stop.

“I think Warlock would like this, too. D’you think it would be too much?” 

“Nah, Angel. Add it to the cart.”

“Actually, it does look like a bit much...”

“Why do you say that?”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, but Crowley could barely see him over the towering pile of items they already had in their shopping cart. It was taking the tiniest of miracles to ensure that they wouldn’t fall over. Nevertheless, Aziraphale placed the remote-control helicopter on the most stable-looking angle of the pile.

“That’s quite enough. You know, I really think we should cut this stuff in half. He’s a spoiled enough child as it is.”

“Aw, come on, think of all these gifts showing up at their house on Christmas morning!” exclaimed Crowley with a grin. “A massive pile of wrapped boxes just creating an avalanche in their living room...wrapping paper and ribbons everywhere...oh, his parents will be so confused. It’s gonna be great.”

Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back and followed Crowley as the demon wheeled the cart gingerly out of the aisle. “I rather feel as if we’re overcompensating here. Like, ‘Oh, we’re sorry Warlock, turns out you aren’t the Antichrist after all, our sincerest apologies for confusing you all these years.’” He frowned. “Looking back now, it was rather cruel, wasn’t it?”

“We didn’t know any better,” said Crowley with a shrug. “Just doing the best we could. And it all turned out all right, in the end.”

They fell silent, knowing full well it wasn’t nearly as simple as Crowley had made it sound. So it had turned out all right, sure. Only after they’d spent ten years interfering in the life of the wrong boy. Only after they’d had that awful fight at the bandstand. Only after the bookshop had burned down and the Bentley had burned up and Satan had come bursting out of the ground...

Well.

“So,” said Crowley, clearing his throat. “Which of this stuff can you stand to let go of, then?”   
  


A few of the more extravagant choices were removed after consideration, and the pile of presents shrank to a more modest size. It was good to have multiple options for him anyway; Crowley always remembered him as a youngster whose imagination constantly needed challenging, who often denounced new interests as ‘boring.’ As for Adam, it was a different challenge. For one thing, they didn’t know him as well. For another, what kind of present could possibly express the sentiment of ‘thank you for not destroying the earth’?

“Why don’t we start with what we know?” said Aziraphale, as Crowley groused and grumbled through the shopping centre. “He’s a young boy who- who loves his village. Loves playing with his friends. Oh, he loves his little dog. What we’re looking for is something simple, something that’s going to help him make the best of this newly-restored world of his...” Aziraphale stopped as they emerged from the aisle. “Huh.”

Crowley stopped too, and looked at what he was looking at. A low platform displayed a selection of bicycles, some of them just the right size for kids entering their teenhood, robustly designed in different colours.

“Huh,” Crowley echoed. They glanced at each other and grinned.

“Oh, it’s not going to fit in the Bentley,” Aziraphale said, his face falling. “Unless you’re amenable to the idea of multiple bike racks.”

“What? Nah. Psssh. Little miracle and we can squeeze ‘em in, don’t worry.” Crowley sauntered off to examine the bikes, “Oh, yeah, Angel, this’ll be great.” He glanced at a group of four clustered together, “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Aziraphale laughed, “All of Them?”

“They deserve it after taking the Horsemen on like that!” exclaimed Crowley. “C’mon, Angel, did you see how that little one with the glasses shanked Famine in the gut?!”

Well, Aziraphale did have to agree that that was a very good point. And before he knew it he and Crowley had paid for the lot and were cramming them, Warlock’s presents included, into the surprisingly roomy boot of Crowley’s car. (As Crowley had promised, a miracle was involved. Bigger on the inside, and all that.)As for actually getting the stuff to them, it seemed straightforward to actually drive to their respective residences and drop everything off— presents deposited on doorsteps and porches and maybe down the chimney, if applicable.

“And we can come straight back to mine and have that lovely dinner,” Aziraphale added. 

“S’long as I have you all to myself afterward,” Crowley said, and froze as soon as he said it.

Aziraphale peered at him curiously. The demon shut the boot and looked away, a blush creeping up his cheeks. Aziraphale wasn’t sure in the slightest what he was embarrassed about, like he’d just said something he wasn’t supposed to, but all he knew was that this was uncomfortable for his friend, so he said “My dear, it’s getting quite nippy. I can take you for a nibble and some hot chocolate?”

Crowley managed a smile. “Sounds great.”

On the short walk to the cafe, Aziraphale peered into shop windows and admired the decorations on display. Awnings were hung with lights, with holly and pine and cheap little plastic strings of stars and reindeer and things. Crowley caught him looking, and stopped, hands in his pockets, patient as always.

“What if I did that with the bookshop?” said Aziraphale, almost mischievously.

“Well, yeah!” Crowley said encouragingly. “In fact, I don’t know why you don’t do it. Thought it was cause it might encourage people to pop in, if they thought it was open.”

“Oh...” said Aziraphale, looking down at his boots as they scuffed up the melting snow, “not really. It was...well, I did once— and this was while you were taking that nap— uh, Uriel was checking up on me while I was assigned to the Christmas projects. They didn’t exactly approve.”

He noticed Crowley’s jaw clench, ever so slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” said Aziraphale, with a small sigh. “They didn’t mark me up or anything, just...reminded me that it was another little frivolity. That I shouldn’t be distracting myself with these human affectations at the busiest time of the year. So I haven’t dared try again since.” He turned to a Crowley with a smile, “But bugger that now, right?”

“Exactly,” agreed Crowley. “Bugger it. After we get our snack I’m taking you straight back to the shops and we’re splurging on as many cheesy decorations as you want, Angel.”

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale beamed, and he actually laced an arm through the demon’s. “You really are the sweetest.”   
  


* * *

Right after they got their hot chocolate they returned to the shops to fill another cart with as many boxes and bags of baubles, tinsel and odd little Knick-knacks. There were trimmings for a tree they didn’t even have yet, and yards and yards of Christmas lights, and pretty much anything that caught their fancy; and for the most part, even Crowley’s choices seemed to match Aziraphale’s tastes.

For the most part.

“No, no, no, Crowley!” said Aziraphale, as the demon stuffed an inflatable Father Christmas display kit into the cart with an almost manic grin. “That is really going too far! You know I have standards.” He pulled the kit back out again, but Crowley yelped and attempted to restrain him.

“Why not? It’s a bloody enormous inflatable Father Christmas, don’t tell me you don’t want a—“

“Where are we going to put it? On the doorstep? Absolutely not.”

“Inside, I meant. In the middle! The bit where all the stair cases go round!”

“I _wanted_ to put the tree in there, not this monstrosity.”

Crowley gasped and clutched a hand to his chest. “You did _not_ just call Father Christmas a monstrosity.”

“Crowley.”

“It’s not leaving the cart,” said Crowley stubbornly.

“Well, good, it can stay in the cart, because I am not paying for it when we check out.”

“No fair!”

“Oh, you have got to be _joking_.”

Both of them whirled around at the sound of a third voice, but Aziraphale knew who it was before he even turned around. There was no mistaking that nasal, disapproving tone.

“Fuck,” spat Crowley, unable to control himself. “Uriel and Sandalphon.”

“Traitors,” said Uriel, an expression of disgust and dread on their face. The two Archangels were dressed as senior management staff, no doubt on assignment at this place, one of the bigger shopping centres in London. “Are we supposed to be concerned to see you here?”

“Not as concerned as I am to see you here,” Aziraphale replied, with a maddening calmness that surprised Crowley. “I didn’t think this place required Archangel-level attention. Unless you’ve been...demoted since we last met?”

“What we do in this human establishment is none of your concern,” said Sandalphon arrogantly, although he eyed the both of them warily.

“Yeah, and so, what we do here is none of _your_ concern, either,” said Crowley, sticking his hands in his pockets stubbornly.

“I don’t even have to ask,” Sandalphon replied, surveying their cart. “By God, you really have gone all the way human, haven't you? Look at this stuff.”

“Human frivolities,” sniffed Uriel.

“I happen to like frivolities,” said Aziraphale indignantly.

Sandalphon looked ready to leave, but Uriel appeared to be short-circuiting as they tried to make sense of the simple situation. “No...you two are up to something, right? You have to be. You don’t just survive holy water and hellfire to come back to Earth and...and celebrate Christmas like humans.” The glanced from Crowley to Aziraphale as if looking for answers. “And _together_?”

“You know full well that Crowley and I are- are friends. Isn’t that why you tried to persecute us?”

“And we all know how that went,” muttered Crowley. “C’mon, guys. We’re retired gentlemen, leave us alone.”

“There’s got to be—“ began Uriel, but Sandalphon sighed.

“Uriel, honestly, if there was anything going on with these two, we would be able to smell the malicious intent,” he said impatiently. “I hate to disappoint you, but there’s nothing going on here. Just two selfish nincompoops trying to be human now that they’re stuck on Earth for good.” He passed them by with a sneer, dragging the shorter Archangel along after him, “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have some actual work to do. Good day, gentlemen.”

Aziraphale waved goodbye, Crowley grunted, and they parted ways. Crowley wheeled their cart out of the aisle, wheel squeaking and creaking.

“You okay?” He muttered, as they lined up at the till.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, with a soft exhale. “That was- well, that was quite something. I didn’t expect to run into them here.”

“Should I be worried, then?” Crowley glanced over his shoulder.

“No, I’m sure it will be fine. They looked more scared of us than we were of them,” Aziraphale chuckled. He sighed, almost contentedly. “It feels good, you know? To stand up to them like that.”

“Are you the least bit curious to know why they’re in this place?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “That’s Heaven’s business. And I am not exactly of Heaven anymore, am I?”

Crowley couldn’t help but grin. “You old bastard.”

The angel smiled back, but his gaze changed as he glanced at him, “You don’t feel that way, do you?” Aziraphale asked. “Sandalphon said we were...stuck here. Does it feel like that to you?”

“Oh, Angel, no,” said Crowley emphatically. “Stuck here, like it’s some sort of punishment? We asked to be left alone here. We _chose_ Earth.” We chose each other.

“We did,” said Aziraphale softly. “To let humanity do whatever they want. To do whatever we want.”

“Starting with setting up this magnificent inflatable,” grinned Crowley, pulling it out of the cart to be scanned in first.

Aziraphale buried his face in his hands. “Oh, Good Lord.”


	2. Chapter 2

**December 20th, 2016**

The Dowlings were hosting a dinner party of their own this year, before they traveled back to the States to celebrate with family. That meant Mrs. Dowling had a great deal of preparing to do, and a great many people to impress, and the only way Miss Ashtoreth could help was to keep Warlock out of the way.

“Why don’t you take your little camera outside, dear?” she suggested, after Warlock had run around every room of the house trying to snap a photo up the skirts of the maids.

“It’s boring out there. Wet and gross and it’s not even snowing.”

“Are you sure?”

She tilted her head toward the window mischievously. Warlock glanced outside and saw, to his delight, that snow had started to fall, and was already covering the grounds of the estate in white.

“Finally!” he cheered. “This is awesome. C’mon, Nanny, let’s go outside!”

Nanny Ashtoreth, chuckling despite herself, managed to get him into a coat and a large hat and a pair of earmuffs and solid boots, and she herself donned a long, thick coat covered in ebony feathers before they stepped outdoors. The gardener was outside, his weeding routine interrupted by the sudden change in weather.

“This is your doing, isn’t it?” he muttered as the nanny approached smugly. Warlock started running circles around the garden, sticking his tongue out to catch snowflakes. “You are spoiling that boy.”

“What, can’t a demon please their master’s child every now and again?” chuckled Ashtoreth. “Besides, it makes him happy.”

“And will keeping him happy prevent what it is we are trying to prevent?” said Francis.

She shrugged, “Might work. You never know. And if the world’s gonna end, why not have a bit of fun while we can?”

Francis clasped his hands behind his back. “I do hope you realise that in the event this all fails, my side will win, in the end.”

“You don’t really believe that,” taunted Ashtoreth.

“I do. That’s the definition of faith.”

Warlock had started making snowballs, and was about to toss one over the garden wall at a car driving past the estate.

“No, Warlock!” exclaimed Brother Francis. “Absolutely not, boy. Put that down!”

Warlock sulked, “You’re no fun, old man!”

“See if it’s fun when you throw that snowball and the driver can’t see through the windshield,” Francis admonished. “What if they crash, then?”

The boy’s eyes widened. He lowered his arm. “Could that really happen?”

“Not if you throw that snowball somewhere safe.”

Warlock paused- an angel and a demon waited with bated breath for the outcome- then turned away. The car whizzed past, safe from any hurling projectiles.

“See?” said Francis smugly.

Miss Ashtoreth was about to respond with something sarcastic, when a snowball burst against her face in an explosion of white powder.

“Oi!” she yelped, and the very snow started to steam where she stood. Warlock barely seemed to notice. He threw his head back and laughed.

“Is this your idea of thwarting?” the nanny seethed at Brother Francis, wiping the snow off her sunglasses.

Brother Francis beamed. “Whatever it takes.”

* * *

**December 17th, 2019**

The bell over the bookshop door jingled merrily, just like in the Christmas song, and Aziraphale sighed visibly. Couldn’t people just stop coming in? The shop had already attracted more customers this week than last, and Aziraphale was nearing the end of his patience with getting them to leave. He turned to see who had come in and came face to face with the one person who was always welcome, no matter what.

“Hey,” grinned Crowley, bundled up in an incredibly thick parka and what could only be metres upon metres of grey woollen scarf wrapped around his neck. “Is this a bad time, Angel?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said with relief. “I’m glad you’re here. I don’t suppose you could help me get rid of all these people?” He added in an undertone.

“Oh, so it is a bad time,” said Crowley with a frown. “You didn’t tell me the shop was packed.” Packed, by their standards, was about five to eight people milling around in shop still having more than enough room to move about and browse the shelves without bumping into each other. “How on earth are we getting the tree up, then?”

“The what, now?” said Aziraphale, as the door opened and the bell jingled again.

“I hate to correct anybody, Mr. Crowley, but there’s no way this is coming through the front door. Is there like a back delivery entrance?”

“Newton!” exclaimed Aziraphale. The young man waved shyly from the doorway, sporting a long and brightly-coloured scarf of his own.

“Hi, Mr. Fell. How’s it going?”

“Newt was kind enough to help me pick up your Christmas tree,” said Crowley breezily, sauntering through the bookshop. Already the customers were cutting him a wide berth. “Did you want it in the middle where all the staircases go round, Angel?”

“Yes. You remembered.” Something fluttered in Aziraphale’s chest.

“Well you heard the man,” Crowley barked at Newt. “Let’s get started.”

“Yes, but, er, I was asking, maybe there’s somewhere else we can bring it through?”

“Oh, you’re right, there is a delivery entrance in back,” said Aziraphale, “although I almost never use it. I’ll go open it up. Excuse me, everyone,” he called, drawing the customers’ attention. “We are now most definitely closing. I apologise. These were unforeseen circumstances. Do come again another time.”

Crowley noticed the grin on his face.

They brought the tree, which had been lashed to the top of the Bentley, round back, and by the time they had it unloaded Aziraphale had successfully, nonviolently gotten rid of the customers.

“Would you please be careful,” he fussed, as Crowley and Newt dragged the tree into the shop.

“Relax, Aziraphale. Nothing’s gonna happen to your books.”

(And nothing did. Little demonic miracles at work.)

The three of them got the tree right where Aziraphale wanted it, and upright as it would go, and Crowley gave it a little shake and muttered “Don’t you dare think of withering on me.” He turned to see an unexpected reward: Aziraphale’s face lit up with absolute delight.

Newt seemed to notice it, too. “So this was a surprise?” He said, by way of conversation.

“Yes! And a rather delightful one,” Aziraphale added. “Newt, my boy, thank you so much for helping Mr. Crowley with this. How have things been, anyway? Where’s Miss Device got to?”

Newt blushed, and he blinked at Aziraphale. “Oh, uh, she’s gone home. Back to America.”

“Ah...for good?”

“No, no, just for a few weeks. She, er, well, her family wanted her to be home for Christmas.”

“Mm,” said Aziraphale patiently. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Crowley lean back from the other side of the Christmas tree, eavesdropping obviously-not-obviously.

Newt sighed. “Actually, I’m not a hundred percent sure if she is coming back. Things were left, uh, a bit up in the air for us.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale comfortingly. “Well, you don’t have to say any more if you don’t want to.”

“But if you want to,” Crowley piped in, “just know that we’d be extremely curious to hear all about it.”

“Shush, Crowley.”

“Guys,” said Newt, embarrassed. “It’s fine, seriously. We’re going to talk after New Year and we’ll...just go from there.” His shoulders slumped. “In the meantime, I’m left to my own— “

“Devices,” said Crowley helpfully.

Aziraphale groaned. “Crowley.” 

“What?”

The angel ignored him, and patted Newt on the back. “There there, young man. You’ll sort it out, you both just need some time.”

“Yeah, I suppose we do.” He looked up, “But this is normal, right? You two would know, you’ve been together so long.” Newt chuckled.

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide, and he glanced furtively at Crowley. The demon seemed frozen in place, eyes darting frantically behind his dark lenses.

“We, um—“

“We aren’t—“

“You’re entirely mistaken, dear boy—“

“Nothing like that between us, heh—“

“Oh! Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry for assuming. I thought— I mean, it was kind of obvious, at least I thought it was. So you guys are just friends?”

“Just friends,” confirmed Crowley brightly.

“ _Best_ friends,” added Aziraphale.

“Right,” said the younger man, still not sounding entirely convinced. “Oh. Mr. Crowley,” he added, somewhat timidly, “you’ve got some pine needles in your hair.”

“Hmm? Where?” said Crowley, just as Aziraphale tutted, “Let me get that, dear.” He reached up to pluck them out of Crowley’s hair, the redhead grunting in annoyance.

“Hold still, Crowley.”

“You got them already.”

“No I haven’t.”

“What’s that in your hand, then?”

“I haven’t got all of them yet,” huffed Aziraphale. “Goodness, there aren’t just some pine needles in here, Newt. There’s a whole bucketful!”

Crowley slapped the angel’s wrist away gently. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Would you please just let me—“ Aziraphale plucked one last green sliver from the back of Crowley’s head. “There. Now, Newton,” he said, graciously turning toward the human, “Would you like to stay for a cup of tea?”

Newt was glancing between them as if he’d just witnessed a rare and remarkable natural phenomenon. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, despite himself.

“No, thank you, Mr. Fell,” he said politely. “I think I’d best get going.”

“Are you sure?” said Aziraphale, as Crowley pulled a handsome envelope out of his blazer. He slapped it against Newt’s chest unceremoniously. “Right, here you are lad, as promised. Thanks for your help today.”

Newt took the envelope, looking almost smug. “No problem, sir. I’m glad I could help you do something nice for your- your friend.”

Later, he would think about how happy Mr. Fell looked when they’d brought the tree in, and how happy Mr. Crowley seemed that he was happy.

It occurred to him that if these two happened to be more than just best friends, they would be the last ones to notice it.

Aziraphale found himself still stuck on the thought of someone, anyone, mistaking him and Crowley for a couple— hardly the first time, but always a surprise, amusement tinged with a longing ache so deep and familiar that Aziraphale no longer recognised it as hurt. Crowley, however, was already sauntering off.

“Mind if I put on some music, Angel?”

Aziraphale sighed, “Is it going to be that bebop?”

“Well, yes. No. Maybe? Depends on your definition of the term?” Crowley shrugged and put his mobile phone inside a bowl. He’d read somewhere that it amplified the sound. But a snap of his fingers and the tune playing from his music library wafted out of the old gramophone in Aziraphale’s sitting room. _Rockin' around the Christmas tree at the Christmas party hop, Mistletoe hung where you can see, every couple tries to stop..._

Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile as Crowley started shaking his hips while pulling a length of streamers from one bag. His demon was always fascinating to watch, an unpredictable, vibrant delight that was so different from the clinical precision of Heaven and the damp ugliness of Hell.

“Where D’you want this?” Crowley turned, elegantly flipping the streamer over his shoulder.

“Maybe over the windows?”

Crowley quirked an eyebrow at him over the rim of his sunglasses, “You got some kind of vision in mind or are we making this up as we go along?”

Aziraphale smiled. “I wasn’t thinking of anything specific. You can go wild.”

“Are you sure? I know you said you have standards,” the demon teased.

“I drew the line at the inflatable display. Everything else goes just fine.”

They worked around the window displays first, then strung tinsel and holly boughs all up the handrails of the winding staircase, and hung up stockings at the antique fireplace. There were more decorations in the box than could fit on the tree, but the slightest of miracles ensured that it wouldn’t fall over due to sheer weight. The two of them spent a happy, companionable silence placing the ornaments on the boughs, working their way up, climbing the stairs and reaching over to hang baubles from branches higher up.

Then Crowley said, “You know what this reminds me of?”

“What?”

He paused, then said, “Hanging the stars in the sky.”

Aziraphale stopped to look at Crowley and smile. “Does it?”

“A little bit.” The angel watched as the demon gently lifted a duck-shaped ornament from its box and hold it with both hands, like it had just been fashioned from the rawest elements of the universe, before hanging it oh-so-carefully on a branch.

“You almost never talk about it.”

“There’s no point, really,” mumbled Crowley.

“Does there have to be a point, for you to talk about it?”

“I suppose not.” Crowley looked up. Behind dark lenses his eyes were wide with something that Aziraphale would be bold enough to call wonder. “I...I’ll say this much. Working on the stars, stringing them into constellations...there’s simply nothing like it.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I can’t remember everything, but I’ll still never be able to forget.”

A tiny shake of the head and Crowley’s moment of tenderness was over. He went right back into hanging ornaments, and the silence returned, though when Aziraphale next reached over he had to fight the urge to take Crowley’s hand.

Instead he contented himself with watching his reckless red-haired demon trim the tree, with all the gentleness and care of one who had spun entire sections of the cosmos into existence. It occurred to Aziraphale that the stars Crowley had made in the beginning were still, most likely, twinkling in the sky, the only evidence that he had ever been an angelic being.

Outside the windows daylight was already fading fast. Soon all that was left was the tree-topper. Aziraphale had picked a large, glitter-dusted five pointed star, despite Crowley’s teasing insistence for him to buy an angel-shaped one (“Wouldn’t that be a little narcissistic, dear?”). He reached for it the same time Crowley did, and their fingers brushed.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale said immediately, seeing Crowley withdraw in surprise. “Did you want to—?”

“Nah, it’s your tree,” Crowley stammered.

Aziraphale laughed. “Our tree, my dear boy.” He pressed the star into his hand. “Go on. Remind yourself what it was like.”

Crowley smiled, and actually looked grateful. He took the star and reached up and placed it on the very top of the tree.

“Let there be light,” Aziraphale said softly, and snapped his fingers.

The house lights in the bookshop went down, and the Christmas lights turned on- and for the first time in thousands of years, Crowley found himself surrounded by a constellation he had a hand in creating.

“Look at that!” He exclaimed. He turned to Aziraphale with a grin. “Y’know, it’s kind of nice to make something pretty for once, instead of trying to wreck it. I’m surprised it hasn’t all fallen apart yet.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Why would it?”

The demon shrugged. “Stuff tends to do that when I’m around.”

“Nonsense, Crowley. You’ve done beautifully.” He put a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you. I do appreciate it.”

“Anything for you, Angel,” murmured Crowley gently. “And I really mean it.”

There was something in his voice just then that made Aziraphale feel like he’d suddenly become the vessel to a tiny sun, burning with a gentle glow deep inside of him. Like the God-given halo he’d had in Heaven suddenly found its way into this mortal corporation. Quite oblivious of what he’d just said, Crowley dusted off his hands and made some kind of polite farewell— Aziraphale didn’t quite catch the words, but all he could think of was that Crowley was leaving now and oh, he didn’t want him to.

But the world hadn’t ended, and the days were many, and they’d soon be together again. So he just smiled back and saw him out the door, and Crowley waved goodbye and he climbed into his car and drove off.

In that moment Aziraphale— the curious angel with a big appetite, the one who could never get enough— was content. Not just satisfied, but happy.

There was nothing more he wanted, not for Christmas and not for the rest of his life. Everything he needed was right here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I’m going somewhere with the flashback scenes, okay? 😂
> 
> Posted at 11:34 PM Dec 24th, AEST. Merry Christmas!


	3. Chapter 3

**December 20th, 2016**

The guests to the Dowlings’ Christmas dinner were diplomats and politicians and other similarly important people with prestigious names and titles and maybe a lordship or two among them. They certainly paid no mind to the gardener and the nanny observing from the periphery.

“When’s a good time to go?” muttered Miss Ashtoreth under her breath. “I’m needed downstairs for a presentation.”

“And I have to file a report upstairs before the last week of advent is up,” Brother Francis muttered back. “Still, would be rude to leave so abruptly—“

“What are you guys talking about?”

Both of them froze at the sound of Warlock’s voice, and turned around to see the small boy standing nearby.

“Ah, Master Warlock!” exclaimed Francis, at the same time Ashtoreth sighed, “Hello, dear.”

But Warlock’s attention suddenly shifted as he looked up past Francis’ ear at something just below the arch of the doorway. He beamed.

“Darling, there’s something wrong with your face,” said the nanny uncertainly.

“That’s mistletoe!” exclaimed Warlock, pointing. “It means you have to kiss!”

Ashtoreth and Francis looked up, and, with a stab of dread, noticed that Warlock was right. There was indeed mistletoe fastened up there.

Warlock was grinning that them mischievously. “Oh, this is gonna be so good.”

“Ssssh!” hissed Ashtoreth, sounding more snakelike than she intended. “Nonsense, Warlock.”

“Ugh, come on, you guys. It’s the tradition!”

Undoubtedly the boy had seen multiple couples observe aforementioned tradition at this very doorway. It was clear he wasn’t going to give up until they complied.

Brother Francis sighed. “Well, Miss Ashtoreth, how about it?”

Again with the rolling of the eyes. “Fiiiiiiine.”

Rather awkwardly, they shuffled closer, and quite unsure of how to go about the whole thing, Brother Francis lifted his hands and placed them gingerly on Miss Ashtoreth’s waist. She flinched ever so slightly before relaxing between his palms.

“Let’s make this quick,” muttered the gardener as they both inched toward one another.

“Well, get on with it. This is hardly professional. We are supposed to be _working_ , for Satan’s sake.” They were whispering just below the range of human earshot.

“I’d say this counts as working. Now would you please stop fidgeting?”

Brother Francis didn’t know how he managed it, but a burst of courage- and the eagerness for this to all be over- pushed him through what little distance was left between them. He pressed his lips briefly to the nanny’s and pulled away abruptly.

Even so, there was no mistaking the flush that crept up her cheeks, so much that her skin nearly matched her hair.

“Ngk,” said Nanny Ashtoreth, dumbfounded.

_Click!_

They both jumped and turned to Warlock, who was holding up his camera.

“Gotcha,” he grinned.

* * *

**December 25th, 2019**

“Let’s go, Angel, let’s go!” Crowley chanted, swinging out of the Bentley.

“Give me moment-“

“Whatever it is you’ve got on, I’m sure you look fine!” hollered Crowley through the open bookshop door, knowing full well that Aziraphale would be wearing the same outfit he had for centuries. You could really count on some things to never change. “In you go, in you go, in you go,” he said, as Aziraphale appeared still putting on a long scarf, and ushered him into the passenger seat. “You know how traffic can get driving out of London.”

“And whose fault is that, I wonder?” chuckled Aziraphale. “Merry Christmas, you wily old thing. I brought us some breakfast.” He set a small basket of bread rolls on the space between the seats.

“What did I say about eating in the car?” said Crowley, but he opened his mouth when Aziraphale held a piece up to him. The Bentley tore down the street, scattering snow slush everywhere and rattling Christmas lights on every window, but Aziraphale didn’t drop the rolls once. Thankfully it was still very early in the morning and traffic yet wasn’t nearly as bad as Crowley had warned.

“First the Shadwells’, then the kids at Tadfield, then the Dowlings’,” said Crowley breezily. “And then back to your place for quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol! This is gonna be great.”

“I’m delighted to hear that,” said Aziraphale, beaming. “Makes a nice change from ruining Christmas, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe. There’s always next year.”

Aziraphale clung for dear life as they careened through London and stopped, with a screech of tires, at the building where Mr. Shadwell and Tracy lived.

“I thought they’d decided to move to the countryside?” Aziraphale said as they climbed out of the car.

Crowley kicked the boot open, “Yeah, I dunno. Mr. S said they were taking it slow for now. Being their age, and everything.” He hoisted out the Christmas hamper they’d gotten forthem, “I don’t see why, they’ve known each other for years.”

“Not in the romantic sense.”

“You’d think they would be sure of each other by now,” said Crowley.

He handed the hamper to Aziraphale. For a moment their eyes met, and while Aziraphale was reduced, as always, to guessing what Crowley was thinking behind those dark glasses, Crowley thought he saw in Aziraphale’s hazel eyes something like regret. Or longing. What that meant, Crowley didn’t ask. Couldn’t ask. Wasn’t sure if Aziraphale himself knew.

He looked away and let Aziraphale take the hamper. They continued up to the front door and knocked. In the depths of the flat they could hear stairs creaking under heavy footsteps and muttered complaints before the door opened and Sgt. Shadwell peeked out.

“Mr. Crowley?” he said. “And Mr. Fell?”

“Surprise!” exclaimed Aziraphale. “Merry Christmas, Sergeant.”

Shadwell pulled the door open wider, showing off what appeared to be an ugly Christmas sweater. But ugly though it was, Shadwell actually looked rather handsome in it. His look of delight at their greeting was immediately replaced by one of suspicion.

“Oh dear- is it that business with the Antichrist again?” He said warily. “What’s so serious that both of you are here on Christmas morning seeking the services of the Witchfinder Army?”

Crowley sighed, and Aziraphale quickly said, “Nothing of the sort, Sergeant. No, everything is perfectly fine now. We’re just here to give you this—“ and he thrust the hamper at Shadwell, “with our best Christmas wishes and our sincere apologies for all that trouble during Armageddon.”

Shadwell glanced between them, eyebrows lifting first one then the other. It had been a few months and he still hadn’t quite gotten his head around the whole thing, especially the fact that his benefactors were...some kind of supernatural entity (not witches, most definitely.) But he noticed the elegant neck of a whiskey bottle in the hamper, and oh, a lovely ham, so he put the confusion away to be dealt with later. Maybe after New Year. That sounded reasonable.

“Well,” Shadwell said at last, with a smile, “All’s well that ends well, isn’t it?”

They heard the sound of bedroom slippers coming down the stairs. “Ooh, look who it is! Our two handsome heroes from the Apocalypse.” Madame Tracy, wearing a long silk garment halfway between a bathrobe and a kimono, peered over Shadwell’s shoulder and waved. “Merry Christmas, boys.”

“Look what they’ve brought, love!” said Shadwell.

At this, Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile. Such a far cry from Shadwell’s former endearments of ‘harlot,’ ‘strumpet’ and ‘jezebel.’ There was an odd, amused look in Tracy’s eyes as she glanced from demon to angel, “That’s ever so kind of you, gentlemen. To come by and bring this to us. _Together_.” She grinned, “I would ask you inside for some tea, but I’m sure you both have somewhere to be? _Also_ together?”

“We do, as a matter of fact,” said Crowley in that curt tone of his.

“He’s right,” conceded Aziraphale. “We should get going. Lovely to see you.”

“Merry Christmas, and all. Sergeant, I trust you’ll keep in touch?” Crowley shook hands with Shadwell.

“Of course, sir. My regards to your father.”

Crowley grinned. “Sure.”

“Enjoy yourselves, boys!” called Madame Tracy as Crowley and Aziraphale returned to the car. She shut the door behind him and turned to Shadwell with a smug look on her face.

He regarded her over the handle of the Christmas hamper. “That doesn’t prove anything, ye know.”

“Oh come on, dear, they’re literally spending Christmas together!” laughed Tracy. “Honestly, you’ve known them for years, haven’t you seen it all this time?”

“I didn’t even know they knew each other!” protested Shadwell. “They do seem very close, but what if they’re just...friends?”

Tracy sighed, “I do forget sometimes, Mr. S, you can’t feel the psychic bonds between people like I do,” she said, patting his cheek fondly. “And the connection these two share? Practically throws the rest of the room in shade. Oh, if only they could see what I see, too.”

* * *

The Bentley rolled into Tadfield to find the perfect picture of a Christmas village. There was just the right amount of snow, the right amount of sun, the perfect conditions for sledding and snowball-fighting and ice-skating...

“Adam,” they said in unison, grinning at each other.

It was funny how, mere months earlier, Crowley and Aziraphale had been puttering around the wrong side of Tadfield looking for the Antichrist, unable to locate him, and now they were just casually driving through like they belonged here. Okay, so maybe throughout the following weeks after Armageddon had been averted, they’d snuck into town to lurk behind picket fences and mailboxes to ensure that Adam wasn’t about to start it all up again. (So far, so good.) Nobody really noticed a big, black vintage car arriving in the village, and if they did, they merely shrugged it off. That’s what they did now, as the Bentley made stops to four certain houses in the village.

Crowley could be subtle with his miracles, when he wanted to.

As planned, the bicycles were deposited at each child’s residence. Old-fashioned cardboard tags were tied to handlebars and addressed in Aziraphale’s elegant handwriting.

“This won’t alarm their parents, will it?” said Crowley as he parked Adam’s bike against the garden gate. “I mean, mysterious expensive presents from unknown benefactors...might be cause for concern.”

“Not so,” said Aziraphale cheerfully. “Their parents will just assume it was a gift from another child’s parents, and consider it a sweet, if quite extravagant gesture, but ultimately forget to say thank you the next time they see each other. Like you said, nobody’s going to notice anything. It’s reality.” He winked at Crowley, and that simple gesture made the demon actually feel as if he’d burst into flame on the spot. “What’s important is that the children will know what this is about. An acknowledgment that they have been part of something, well, bigger, even if they don’t understand.

Crowley chuckled. “What?” said Aziraphale curiously.

“It’s just occurred to me that we started this thing playing godfathers to one kid, and now it looks like we’re playing it for five,” said Crowley with a shrug.

“Oh, it’s just for this year, dear boy.”

Crowley grinned, “Are you sure about that?”

“Now why do you say that like I—“

“C’mon Aziraphale, we both know you’re soft for humans,” Crowley teased. “Human kids especially. You’re not gonna want to stop.”

“Excuse me, who gathered as many human children into the Ark as possible and kept them dry and quiet until the flood stopped?” Aziraphale retorted, but he was pink-cheeked with holding back laughter. “ _You_ are the soft one, you wily snake.”

“Am not. Shut it. Now let’s scram before somebody notices.”

But Aziraphale had stopped, and was glancing in through the sitting room window of the Young residence, where he saw the little family coming downstairs to have Christmas breakfast...

There was Adam in pyjamas, bouncing down the last few steps to make a beeline for the Christmas tree, Dog following at his heels as usual. His father and mother seemed practically bursting with excitement for him to open their presents, and kept arms looped round each other as they drank their tea and coffee, and very soon Adam had covered the floor in ribbons and crumpled wrapping paper and Dog was worrying the scraps to shreds and Mr. Young managed to wrangle the creature into a handsome green bow tie for a hastily-snapped Christmas photo which Mrs. Young took with the aid of a selfie stick...

Aziraphale backed away from the garden gate and took a deep, indulgent breath, no doubt letting his senses run wild on the love he could feel around them. It was like he could smell something particularly fragrant that Crowley could not, and Crowley had to admit he was feeling a bit left out.

“I can feel—“

“Is it the love again?” said Crowley, trying his best to sound impatient.

“Not just here— everywhere,” Aziraphale said. “I- I remember why I do enjoy Christmas, in spite of everything. It’s because of the love.” And then he said, unexpectedly, “You know, sometimes I wish you could feel it too.”

Crowley blinked. “I- you know I can’t, Angel-“

“Yes. That’s why I wish you could. There’s nothing like it, you know?” Aziraphale’s gaze flicked down for a moment, gauging how far away Crowley was standing and how feasible it would be for him to grab the demon’s hand and— well, maybe there was a way of showing him, after all if they’d swapped bodies certainly the same could be said of sharing emotions.

And it might be nice, for once, to hold Crowley’s hand in a way that wasn’t just a friendly handshake.

“What?” said Crowley, his voice unexpectedly tender.

Aziraphale shook his head.”Nothing. We should go.”

He turned to get back into the Bentley, then let out a tiny high-pitched squeal as he slipped on the snowy sidewalk.

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale, panicked, then looked up at Crowley, “That was quick of you.”

“Huh?” And Crowley realised that the angel had landed right in his arms. Which meant that he’d stuck them out to catch Aziraphale as he slipped. In fact, he was holding Aziraphale much like one would hold their partner after dipping them at the end of a tango— fuck’s sake, Aziraphale’s hand had even landed on his shoulder.

Crowley immediately straightened, “Er, are you all right?” _Hands off,_ scolded a voice in his head, _what did we say about touching this angel? (We don’t have to,_ argued another voice, _we’re on our own side now and it doesn’t matter, can’t a guy just look out for his...friend?)_

“Quite,” said Aziraphale. “Thank you, my dear. That could have been a disaster for this old corporation.” He straightened his coat and laughed, opening the door to the front passenger seat of the Bentley, and still quite inexplicably dazed, Crowley followed into the driver’s seat.

When Adam and his friends burst out of the house after breakfast, they found the bicycles parked neatly at their doors, on porches, next to garden-gates, patiently awaiting the children who would ride them from one adventure to the next. Their brief moment of surprise and confusion gave way to delight. Of course, the bikes couldn’t be used in the snow, but each child knew the gift was a promise: that winter would end and spring would come, and when it did, there would be new bikes for riding. And there was the mystery of _who_ had brought them in the first place, for they’d already opened presents from Santa Claus...

Adam, however, put a hand on one shiny handlebar, and he knew. He didn’t get the feeling that they were being watched— rather, that they were being watched over.

He smiled. Things would be quite all right from here on out.   
  


* * *

The Dowling Estate hadn’t changed very much since they had left it some three or four years ago. There was still that back entrance that opened for the Bentley as it came through, although on the drive up to the main house Aziraphale noted with some disappointment that whoever was maintaining the gardens currently had let the standard drop somewhat.

They dragged the enormous sack of presents onto the back porch for discovery, trying to remain quiet all the while. Crowley looked up from tightening the drawstring to find Aziraphale giving him a small, reassuring smile, and the white morning sun shone behind him like a- well, like a halo, Crowley thought pathetically.

“I wish we could stick around to see his reaction,” Crowley grinned. “Warlock is going to be so—“

He was cut off as something cold and painful came hurtling out of nowhere, striking Crowley on the chest. The scream he made was embarrassingly inhuman, even for a demon. Aziraphale cried out too, as something hard and cold smacked right into his shoulder.

“Oh,” the angel said, recovering quickly, “it’s— it’s snowballs.” He shook the powder off his coat and looked up to see Crowley splayed against the porch steps, clutching his chest where the snowball had hit him.

“S-so...cold,” he gasped.

“Crowley!”

“I’m dying here,” said Crowley, teeth chattering. “A-angel...please...”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Crowley, for Heaven’s sake.” He heard bushes rustling several paces away, beyond where they had parked the car.

“Hey, buttheads!” yelled a familiar voice. “What are you doing on my dad’s lawn?”

Crowley looked surprised. “Is that Warlock!” he hissed.

“It must be! Now come on, you dramatic fiend,” said Aziraphale, hoisting Crowley upright.

“Look at me,” the demon winced at the white powder-splat on his coat, “I look like the world’s sloppiest crack dealer.”

“You could just miracle it away.” Aziraphale darted a furtive glance over his shoulder. He could see the silhouette of a young boy racing over the snowy ground.

“Get out before I call the security agents on you!” shouted Warlock.

Crowley gave him a sulking look through his sunglasses. “But it’s cold. I don’t do cold. I’m a snake, remember? And if there’s one thing snakes cannot stand—“

If a miracle was to be done, Aziraphale had to act quickly before Warlock came. He leaned over and blew gently, and the snow vanished off Crowley’s clothing in a glittering cloud.

The demon grinned, fake-innocently. “Thanks.”

And then, Warlock came bounding over, one arm pulled back to throw another snowball, but stopped when he got close enough to see who it was.

“Nanny?” said Warlock, stunned, and then, full of incredulity it sounded almost scandalised, “Brother Francis?”

Crowley looked down, realising he was suddenly wearing a black dress and shawl he hadn’t worn in years. And there was Aziraphale in a thick, dirt-stained coat and oh, Satan preserve him, the _buck teeth,_ the buck teeth were back.

“Hello, m’dear,” beamed the gardener.

“I thought you were two guys snooping around the back porch,” said Warlock, confused. “What are you even doing here?”

“We wanted to drop off some Christmas presents for you, boy,” said Miss Ashtoreth, composing herself. “And it was supposed to be a surprise.”

“Yes, don’t you usually fly home for the holidays?” Francis added.

Warlock’s shoulders slumped, and he pouted. “No. My dad had stuff to do before and after Christmas, and Mom wouldn’t leave without him. She’s trying to save their marriage or whatever.” He rolled his eyes. “So we’re stuck here. And I’m having a snowball fight on Christmas morning all by myself, like a loser.”

“Oh,” said Nanny Ashtoreth, and a change came over her; she moved over with an odd tenderness that Francis was certain hadn’t been there moments before, and put a hand on Warlock’s shoulder. “My poor dear. See, I knew it would be a good idea to drop by today.”

“Both of you?”

“Of course.”

“Huh.” Warlock studied them, slouching slightly. A grin crept onto his face, “I knew it. So you guys did end up together!”

Brother Francis’ smile bent into something more awkward. “Pardon?”

“Well, sure,” said Warlock. “I always thought you had a thing going on. Like that time you kissed under the mistletoe, remember? Mom and Dad had a boring old party and—“

“Oh,” said Francis quickly, seeing the nanny balk uncertainly. “Oh, goodness, you must be mistaken, dear boy.”

“No I’m not,” said Warlock bluntly.

“No? Well I don’t recall that happening at all.”

Brother Francis did not see Miss Ashtoreth glance at him just then, eyebrows raised slightly above her dark oval sunglasses. The gardener went on, “That certainly doesn’t sound at all professional.”

Warlock gave him a withering look. “No, ‘cause I made you do it, remember? At first you guys didn’t want to, but then you did. It wasn’t even that long ago, but whatever. So did you get married or what?”

“I don’t appreciate your tone, boy,” Brother Francis admonished, at the same time Nanny hissed, “Warlock, show a little resssssspect.”

Call it years of subtle conditioning, but Warlock straightened his back, eyes wide, and said, “Yes. Sorry.”

“We most certainly have not gotten married,” Miss Ashtoreth said haughtily. “We have simply remained...”

“Friends,” put in Francis.

“ _Best_ friends.” You could tell she was rolling her eyes behind the sunglasses.

Warlock seemed even more confused than before. “Oooookay. That’s, uh, nice.” He glanced at the pile of gifts at the door, and grinned again. “So is that stuff really all mine?” The boy trotted over and eagerly started opening the bag. “Cool!”

His attention seemed appropriately diverted. Both gardener and nanny sighed in relief.

Francis cleared his throat. “Well, young Master, I think we’d best get going now. Do have a merry Christmas, and be good.”

“And not throw snowballs at cars,” said Warlock.

Francis beamed proudly. “You remember!”

Warlock waved them goodbye, and then unexpectedly, as Miss Ashtoreth began to make her way off the porch in her swishing skirts, the boy jumped up and hugged her tightly.

“I missed you,” was all he said.

“Oh,” Ashtoreth said again, quite overcome, “Oh, my sweet boy.” And she laid a hand on the back of his neck gently as he pressed his cheek to her sternum, just like when he was younger. It was with difficulty that she finally let go of him, letting him run back to his new stash of presents and what was certain to be a bleak, quiet Christmas in a big empty house.

Without another word Brother Francis turned and headed back up the path toward the Bentley. Miss Ashtoreth tried to catch up, but found black skinny jeans much better for mobility and made the change with a snap of her fingers.

“Aziraphale,” called Crowley. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but _slow down._ ”

“Sorry, my dear.”

Crowley had gotten used to the simple endearment over the years, but right now it stung deep inside of him. For the first time, Crowley doubted that Aziraphale actually meant it.

“I’m just eager to return home, that’s all,” Aziraphale said. “You said it yourself, traffic can be quite a bother on—“

“I need to ask you something,” panted Crowley, finally catching up to the angel. He turned to Crowley with an expectant look on his face, now also back to his regular fluffy-haired, bowtied appearance. “When Warlock— mentioned— that time— _that time_ three years ago—“ Crowley spread his hands, “I mean, seriously?”

“Seriously, what?”

Fuck’s sake, this angel could be a bastard sometimes.

“You said you couldn’t remember,” Crowley said as they made their way back to the car. “The mistletoe, the _thing_. Ugh. What we did! You can’t remember it at all— one embarrassing, career-threatening moment that wasn’t even all that long ago?”

“Oh, that,” said Aziraphale irritably. “Of course I do, Crowley. It’s not the sort of thing you forget.”

Crowley threw his hands up. “Then why did you tell Warlock otherwise?”

”Well if you must know, I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

“You didn’t want to embarrass me,” Repeated Crowley.

“No, of course not.” Aziraphale looked straight ahead, not making eye contact with the demon. “You were so flustered when it first happened. You almost threw a fit. And I don’t understand why you seem so upset right now, just because I pretended not to recall something we _both_ decided we’d rather forget.”

“So you do remember.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Yes, Crowley, I said that, didn’t I? In fact I haven’t forgotten since,” he added, almost hopelessly. “But we both know it didn’t mean anything.”

“No,” said Crowley bitterly. “I suppose it didn’t.”

“You were the one who insisted that we never speak of it again.”

“I was trying to protect y- I was trying to protect us,” snapped Crowley.

“Well, there you are, then. We did what we had to do. Why are we even having this conversation?” Aziraphale sounded almost pained. “Why are we arguing about something that— that doesn’t even matter to you, anyway?”

“When did I ever, explicitly say that it didn’t matter?!” Crowley burst out, unexpectedly. “Don’t you know that nothing’s been the same since that moment?”

Aziraphale stopped dead on the frozen grass, and so did Crowley, suddenly realising what he’d said. For a moment there was no sound but their laboured breathing in the cold air, clouds forming where they exhaled. How heated did this conversation have to get that two celestial beings felt the need to breathe?

“What- what do you mean, nothing’s been the same?” Aziraphale finally stammered. “You’re not making any sense!”

Crowley’s jaw clenched. He adjusted his sunglasses, stalked past Aziraphale toward the car. “Forget I said anything,” he said with an effort, the words pushing past a growing lump in his throat. _Who the fuck put that lump there, anyway? Go away. Demons don’t cry._ He climbed into the driver’s seat and slammed the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ngk.


	4. Chapter 4

**December 20th, 2016**

As soon as Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis left the gates of the estate, the nanny turned sharply to her companion and hissed “You will not breathe another word of this.”

“Of course not. What do you take me for? I hardly think kissing a demon is something to brag about,” replied Francis huffily. Further along the path they started changing. Work clothes turned into a well-kept old coat over a waistcoat and trousers, Miss Ashtoreth’s long black dress slimmed down into a pair of jeans and a jacket. She pulled a fistful of pins from her hair and shook it loose in a wild tumble of red waves.

“Well, that’s evidence. Incriminating evidence. It’ll get us both in trouble.”

“It’s not like we wanted to!” Protested Aziraphale. “Just to keep up appearances!”

“I’ll have to ruin that negative so the photo never sees the light of day,” muttered Crowley.

“For someone who insisted on not talking about it, you seem to refuse to stop talking about it,” huffed Aziraphale. “Look, think of it this way. It’s not exactly like we were kissing. That was— that was Brother Francis and Miss Ashtoreth, alright? Not us at all.” He was surprised at the tinge of regret in his voice.

Crowley seemed not to notice. “When you put it that way, I guess. I’m still destroying the film, though.”

“Do whatever you have to.” 

**December 25th, 2019**

Crowley didn’t know what he expected to happen next. He knew, with a rising feeling that could only be described as Full and Unmistakable Panic, that there was no going back from this. He needed to drive— no, he needed to wait— no! He had to get out of here (go where? Without Aziraphale?) He needed to— they needed to talk—

He crossed his arms on top of the wheel and sank his forehead onto them with a groan. It was a while before he heard the door to the passenger seat open, the angel slide in next to him. At some point, Crowley would have to lift his head and say something. Anything.

He didn’t have to.

“We really ought not to be snapping at each other. It’s Christmas,” said Aziraphale, with a weak chuckle. “Although I suppose in the end, it’s just a day like every other day of the year. Anything could happen.”

Crowley lifted his head slowly. Without even looking at Aziraphale, he leaned back into his seat and took a deep, weary breath. A few more moments of silence passed between them, neither looking at the other. Finally Aziraphale sighed, but not impatiently. Just a soft exhale that one would make when they decided _Right, now or never._

“You should know...nothing’s been the same for me since that moment, either,” he said quietly. He turned to face Crowley, and met the demon’s gaze, holding it with a tenderness that was almost intense. “And I remember everything about it. Everything. My lips against yours. The way it felt to hold you. The way you- you blushed when I pulled away...” Aziraphale chuckled softly. “Don’t you know it took everything I had not to pull you back in again?”

“Angel,” said Crowley, feeling as if all the air had been knocked out of him— not that he’d needed it.

“Of course, I convinced myself that it meant nothing,” Aziraphale continued. “I tried to tell myself that I was kissing Nanny Ashtoreth— that I was just Brother Francis kissing Nanny Ashtoreth. But I knew,” he whispered, “I knew it was you, Crowley. That’s who I was kissing. That’s who I wanted to be kissing. And I knew then that- that it didn’t matter what shape you were in, or what clothes you wore, or what your hair was like or how many times you changed your skin like a snake— it would always be you, and I’d always, _always_...”

His voice broke. It was too much, for both of them. Aziraphale forced himself to take a deep, painful breath. Silence filled the still air inside the car.

“Always, huh?” Crowley finally said.

Aziraphale nodded helplessly.

“Glove box,” said Crowley quietly. “Open it.”

Puzzled, Aziraphale did so. There was all manner of junk in there, stacked documents and old CDs and a plant mister and Crowley’s snake brooch from Rome and a fidget spinner, but Crowley leaned over and pulled something out from where it had been tucked into the side and held it up between two fingers.

It was a photograph, Aziraphale realised. The photograph. Overexposed, slightly out of focus, but it was them all right, standing gingerly in each other’s arms underneath the mistletoe. The edges of the print were curled slightly, as if Crowley had been keeping it hidden, maybe even keeping it close to his heart, for a long, long time.

“I lied, Angel. I’m sorry. Only lie I’ve ever told you in six thousand years— well,” Crowley corrected himself, “one of the only lies, at least.”

“You didn’t destroy the negative,” said Aziraphale softly, taking the photograph with a trembling hand. “In fact, you- you developed it.”

“Thought I could stand to just forget it,” said Crowley miserably. “But when I took Warlock to have them developed I- I couldn’t do it. I wanted to remember.”

“But if anyone found it—“

“Nobody found it,” Crowley said with a wry smile. “I made sure of that. I can take good care of things, too, you know.”

Aziraphale smiled back, eyes glistening. “Yeah, I know.”

 _You took care of Warlock. You take care of me. You took care of_ us _, all these years._

“So it does mean something to me,” Crowley managed. “Just because we decided not to talk about it again doesn’t— doesn’t mean it—“ He stuttered, unsure whether he was actually making any sense, but Aziraphale put a hand gently on his wrist.

“I know,” he said softly. “Me, too.” His hand found Crowley’s, slipping easily into the curl of his palm and fingers like it was made to be there. “Promise me then, dear: no more pretending. There’s no need for it now. Anything you feel— anything at all— promise you won’t hide it from me.”

Aziraphale’s gaze was warm and earnest. Crowley blinked at him from behind his sunglasses, drinking in the light. _Kiss me_ , he wanted to ask, and _Can I kiss you now?_ But the moment was still fragile, and he’d been blamed for going too fast before.

He nodded anyway, making the promise before he was ready to start acting on it.

Aziraphale handed the photo back to Crowley. Instead of putting it back into the glove box, he tucked it onto the dashboard, displaying the memory without shame or fear of having it seen. The glow of Aziraphale’s smile when they looked back at each other seemed to warm Crowley up from the core, all he needed against the cold of the weather outside.

“Shall we get on?” he asked lightly. “You mentioned making Christmas dinner.”

“Indeed. And you mentioned helping me.”

“So I did.”

* * *

  
It felt different, now. Driving back to London with these barriers finally pulled down between them. To Aziraphale it was like losing your footing on your way down a hill— a giddy, sudden tumble toward something so inevitable, so ineffable, and yet so difficult to believe it was actually happening. There was no telling what would happen now, between him and his handsome demon (the same demon who kept his mouth shut and his eyes on the road, but who was unmistakably trying to stop himself from grinning) but Aziraphale was certain that it could only be good.

They turned round a corner, knowing that on this street stood the building that concealed the entrances to Heaven and Hell. Kind of awkward, driving past your former workplace, whether you were human or not.

“Dear me, it looks rather bleak,” Aziraphale commented as they passed.

“Not festive at all,” Crowley agreed.

“Well you know how my side feels about holiday decorations. Human frivolities. Distractions, at best.”

“Would be a shame if something were to distract them, well and truly,” remarked Crowley.

“Hmm.”

They glanced at one another. Crowley noticed the incredibly bastard look on Aziraphale’s face.

“Yeah, Angel?” he prompted.

Aziraphale smiled. “You still have the inflatable Santa in the back, yes?”  
  


* * *

And so it was on Christmas of 2019 that the corporate entities of Heaven and Hell found their machinations both equally, and not-at-all subtly, thwarted by the sudden and unexpected appearance of an enormous inflatable figure of Santa Claus crammed right up against the revolving doors, effectively preventing anyone coming in or out. When all attempts to miracle it away failed, both parties came to the realisation that a celestial being, not a human prankster, was responsible.

The finger-pointing, bickering and yelling that ensued between angels and demons trapped on either side of the entrance was _chaotic_.

Still, it took four whole hours before Crowley’s mobile rang, just as Aziraphale was setting the table for their dinner (which, by the way, turned out mouth-wateringly delicious, if he did say so himself.) Christmas music was playing from the antique gramophone, cheerfully underscoring the scene.

“Hey, Hastur! Long time no bother. Oh, there’s a what now?” Crowley gasped over emphatically, pretending to be scandalised. “Me? Now why would you ever think I’d do such a thing? Well, fine, maybe it was. No, I don’t have to do shit, Duke Hastur, your disgrace. In case you can’t remember, I’ve been officially emancipated from Hell.”

Aziraphale seated himself opposite Crowley, and grinned, enjoying how events were unfolding.

“Well, maybe I don’t care how you’re going to move Santa out. Actually, I definitely don’t care. You figure something out. Hey, plenty of angels trapped there with you, right? Why don’t you try working together. It worked out pretty well for me. Now if you don’t mind, I have Christmas dinner to get to. Ciao!”

“Oh dear,” quipped Aziraphale, when Crowley put the phone down. “Have we made the naughty list?”

“Their fault for leaving the main entrance so unattended,” said the demon with a nonchalant wave of his hand. “Anyone could get in. Especially a jolly fat man in a red suit, which I suppose is the point...You’re a bastard genius, you are.”

But the look he gave Aziraphale from across the table was intensely fond and charming and smitten.

“Here,” said Aziraphale, pushing a plate of oysters toward Crowley, because of course they had to have oysters. “Appetiser?” He lifted one up to him tentatively and without a moment’s hesitation Crowley leaned in to slurp the oyster out of its shell.

“Heaven’s sake, Crowley,” Aziraphale admonished, catching sight of a barbed tongue flicking in and out.

“What?”

“Manners, please. It’s Christmas.”

“It’s just you and me, and you’ve seen me do worse.” Now it was Crowley’s turn to feed him, lifting an oyster to his lips as Aziraphale had done. The angel had to scoot in closer to eat out of his hand, and in doing so placed a hand on Crowley’s knee to brace himself; but even when he leaned back in his seat, Crowley noticed he didn’t take his hand away, which suited him just fine.

Wine was poured, and food was eaten, and somehow Aziraphale never tired once of feeding little morsels to Crowley and was only relieved (and secretly thrilled) that the demon actually let him, and oh, it was lovely to be fed by him too, and to have Crowley offer the last morsel of something on a plate for Aziraphale to finish off gratefully. They had done this together, he mused. And it was certainly not all traditional; sure, there was a small turkey and a pudding, but there were the oysters, and of course there were crepes, and a select dish of the finest sashimi Aziraphale could miracle up because Crowley absolutely had to taste it, and this delightfully odd mishmash of their favourite things was what made it special. Made it uniquely _theirs_.

Dinner turned into a Christmas party just for two. More bottles were brought out, the music became more upbeat, and Crowley pulled his first ever Christmas cracker with Aziraphale. He let the angel read him the stupid joke on the slip of paper and put the flimsy green paper crown on his head, and together they drifted into the back room with a plate of cookies and extraordinary amounts of alcohol.

As they collapsed on the couch together, Aziraphale noticed Crowley shiver slightly.

“Cold?” When the demon nodded, he snapped his fingers.

Crowley looked down at his torso, then looked up to give Aziraphale a withering, amber glare. “Seriously?”

“It’s cute!” Aziraphale tugged on the woolly sleeve of the Christmas jumper that he’d miracled onto Crowley. “And look. Ducks.”

“So there are,” said Crowley, noticing the pattern of waterfowl that marched in a stripe across his chest. At least two of the ducks were pictured in the act of mating, he noticed, which brought a grin to his face at Aziraphale’s sense of humour. “Your turn. ‘S only fair.” Before the angel could protest, Crowley snapped his fingers and outfitted him in a similar jumper.

“No whinging,” Crowley warned. “That was the very best I could do.”

“Really, now,” deadpanned Aziraphale, tucking in the front of a bright green jumper that was covered in various Freddie Mercury faces. It was gloriously tacky.

Crowley grinned. “C’mon, Angel. Just this once.”

Aziraphale conceded with a sigh, and plopped himself down next to Crowley, who hummed contentedly as he finished the last of his wine.

“Props to Adam for not ending the world like he was supposed to,” he said, peering out the window at a light snowfall.

“What a relief,” sighed Aziraphale happily. “Speaking of which, I do believe the Youngs are having a delightful Christmas dinner together.”

(They were.)

“And I rather think Warlock is causing a great deal of chaos with that electric scooter we got him,” grinned Crowley.

(He was.)

“Do you think, if Madame Tracy brought up moving to the countryside now, Mr. Shadwell would say yes?” mused Aziraphale.

“Possibly,” said Crowley wryly. “Well, he ought to.”

(He actually did.)

(She was delighted.)

“And our boy Newt?”

Crowley swirled his wineglass thoughtfully. “Must be home in Dorking with his mum. D’you suppose Anathema has called him yet?”

“I rather think she should,” said Aziraphale.

(And she did, time differences be damned.)

Crowley reached for the bottle, only to find it empty. “Here,” he heard Aziraphale say. The angel handed him a new bottle, larger and more expensive and tied with a tartan bow round the neck.

“Your usual,” smiled Aziraphale, as Crowley’s eyes lit up. “We have a tradition, don’t we?”

“Sly bastard! Where were you keeping that?”

“Same place I assume you’re keeping mine,” said Aziraphale. Crowley cackled.

“All right, then.” He pulled the box of chocolates from the pocket dimension they’d been tucked in and presented it to Aziraphale with a flourish. “The usual. Only because you never get tired of it.”

Aziraphale took the box, and smiled at Crowley, which he’d expected; what he didn’t expect was when the angel gave him a fond look and said, “You never let me down, you know?”

Crowley lowered his eyes and made an awkward noise halfway between a scoff and a chuckle. “Well—“

“I do mean it, my dear.” Aziraphale put the box on the small table before them, making room between wineglasses and Christmas-cracker confetti. “I suppose I should make that clear now. Have I ever properly said thank you? For taking care of things, and slowing down for me?”

Crowley looked up and for the first time, he, the demon with the notorious stutter, found himself knowing exactly the right thing to say in that moment. Not something biting or clever or snarky— something Aziraphale needed to hear.

“Slow down?” He repeated. “Angel, I kinda think we got to the same place at the same time.” At the tiny questioning tilt of Aziraphale’s head, he went on, shifting his position on the couch so he could face the angel better. “That time. You know? At the Dowlings’. What we talked about earlier.”

“Yes?”

“I said nothing’s been the same since then,” said Crowley with a shrug. “And you said that’s how you felt, too.“

Aziraphale nodded sombrely. “It was the moment I realised I would always want you.”

“Yeah.” Crowley’s voice had gone all soft from the wine, at least that’s what he told himself. “Ditto.”

“So you’re saying that we’ve been there for a long time, just didn’t move any further on it.”

“Nope.”

He had no idea how his hand was suddenly touching, suddenly holding the angel’s again, gently cradling each others’ fingertips in the unnecessary, maddening space between them.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “How about now?”

“What?”

Aziraphale smiled. From here since their first meeting in Eden, how much had really changed?

“How about now?” He scooted just a tiny bit closer, careful not to crowd Crowley in. The demon was already fidgeting, skittish snake that he was. “Five more days till the year ends. Five more days till the _decade_ ends. But no more days until the world ends. Just us and eternity.” Aziraphale looked into Crowley’s eyes. “Seems like a good time to move further, don’t you think?” He snapped his fingers, and Crowley looked up just enough to see a fresh bunch of mistletoe fasten itself to the light fixture above.

Another awkward chuckle, and Crowley dropped his gaze again, “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“No need for that,” tutted Aziraphale. “Just— come here.”

Without further protest, Crowley moved forward, as effortlessly as a wave rolls against the shore.

Aziraphale marvelled at how the demon fit perfectly in his arms, his corporeal form so easy to hold and by held by. If he were to love Crowley any more, his heart would simply burst— take the rest of his body with it, discorporate on the spot. Somehow he managed to hold himself together. Somehow he managed to wrap his fingers around the back of Crowley’s neck and press their foreheads together, gently, gently, watching the double sunsets of Crowley’s eyes vanish under trembling eyelids.

Aziraphale closed the last few inches of distance between their lips, lingered there against Crowley’s for a moment before pulling away, exactly the way he had done it all those years ago at the Dowlings’.

“Was that okay?” He asked, barely a whisper.

Crowley didn’t respond, not with words at least. For a split second Aziraphale was afraid it somehow wasn’t good enough. Then he felt Crowley move forward, rough and reckless, and the demon’s lips press hungrily against his.

All right, that was _very_ okay.

Goosebumps raised on Aziraphale’s skin as he felt the air charge and hum with energy, with love, pure and sweet and ecstatic. It carried on the falling snow and the ringing of bells, on the laughter of children and the scent of pine. But for him, Crowley was at the centre of it all. He always had been.

This was its own kind of heaven, he realised.

When Crowley broke away at last, it wasn’t because he needed to catch a breath, but because, Aziraphale realised, he was laughing, a soft helpless chuckle against the angel’s neck.

“Hopeless,” he heard him say. “Bloody hopeless, we are. Now what?”

“Now?” Aziraphale leaned his forehead against Crowley’s again. “Now, I suppose, we keep going. We keep drinking. Keep pulling those Christmas crackers and keep dancing to your bebop, and after that we keep going to see concerts and art shows and have dinners and lunches and breakfasts and never once stop for a minute to look over our shoulders or pretend that we don’t know each other.” He pressed a quick, adoring kiss to the demon’s cheek. “And if you’ll let me, I’ll keep kissing you. I’ve rather developed quite a taste for it.”

The look Crowley had on his face as Aziraphale smiled at him was akin to a weary sailor finally sighting land. The demon who asked too many questions and drove too fast finally knew exactly what he’d always wanted for Christmas, and it was right here. All of it.

He moved forward to hug the angel tightly, all of Aziraphale’s curves fitting neatly against Crowley’s edges. Maybe they’d been made like that from the beginning or maybe they’d moulded themselves around each other over time, they’d never know. All Crowley was sure of was that it felt like home.

“Merry Christmas,” Aziraphale murmured into Crowley’s ear. The demon shut his eyes, buried his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder. Inhaled the scent of old books, warm tea, pine needles, love, joy.

“Merry Christmas, Angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought this would be the last chapter, I was wrong. New Year epilogue time follow ❤️👌🏾


	5. an epilogue, perhaps

**December 31st, 2019**

**T-minus 20 minutes until January 1st, 2020**

“Let’s go, Crowley, let’s go!” chanted Aziraphale.

“Just a minute!”  
  
“Whatever you’ve got on, I’m sure you look fine!” Aziraphale sang out, his voice bouncing off the sleek corners of Crowley’s apartment. The demon soon emerged, holding another bottle of liquor. 

“Found it!” he cheered, raising it up.

“Another bottle? What’s wrong with the champagne I brought out?” protested Aziraphale.

“Champagne is for toasting. This baby is for getting wasted,” grinned Crowley. “Got the picnic basket?”

“Wouldn’t dream of forgetting. Now let’s get a wiggle on.” He ushered Crowley out the door and grabbed the basket.

They rushed out into the landing, “Up the lift?” Aziraphale queried, but Crowley shook his head.

“No access that way. Come on.” He grabbed the angel’s free hand and led him up a narrow staircase. Funny how things like this, like holding and touching, had become so normal to them over the last five days. They bounded up the stairs, which wound up to a small door- or at least, was supposed to.

“Bugger,” said Crowley. “Who sealed up the damn doorway?” 

“There must be another way out,” said Aziraphale. 

“I’m breaking it down,” Crowley said, ignoring him and ignoring the ‘CAUTION: UNSAFE ENTRY’ sign tacked to the door, which had been plastered over and nailed shut with boards.

“No, no, no, you will do no such thing!” Aziraphale exclaimed, grabbing Crowley’s wrist before he could snap his fingers.

“Well, what do you expect me to—“ 

“There’s another way,” said Aziraphale, suddenly brightening. “You have a balcony, right?” 

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Yeah. So?” 

* * *

The midnight sky over London hummed with anticipation as the city awaited the dawning of the new year. In spite of this, nobody noticed when an angel and a demon fluttered from the balcony of a penthouse apartment in Mayfair to the rooftop of the building and laid out a fabulous picnic spread.

“Are you sure nobody saw us?” said Crowley, folding his wings with an effort.

“Nobody saw us, dear. A little miracle.” Aziraphale, wings already tucked out of sight, gazed out over the city. “Look at this view! This was a marvellous idea.”

“Yeah, it was,” grinned Crowley. He stuck his hands in his pockets.

“And look,” Aziraphale pointed up at the stars just before they were blocked out by the imminent fireworks. “There they are.” 

“Right where I left them,” Crowley said softly. 

“You did well. They’re beautiful.” 

Aziraphale came toward him and leaned his head on his shoulder, and Crowley actually let him, and the angel pressed a kiss to the side of his face, just on the little snake symbol Crowley had tattooed there. In the past five days they hadn’t left each others’ side, moving from the bookshop to the flat just because they knew they could. In the past five days they’d more than made up for the last six thousand years of having to keep a distance. In the past five days, everything had changed; well, not exactly changed, more like, become the way things were always meant to be.

“Five minutes.” Crowley glanced at the overcomplicated timepiece on his wrist.

“I’ll pour the champagne,” said Aziraphale.

On the very top of a building out of sight from human eyes, an angel and a demon waited along with the rest of London with bated breath for the new year. And at the stroke of midnight, amidst the chime of Big Ben and the scatter of fireworks across the sky, they kissed along with the millions of other couples celebrating the dawn of a new decade.

“So,” Crowley said afterward, lifting a glittering glass of champagne. “To the world!”

“To the world,” repeated Aziraphale, and then, softly, “To family.”

He smiled up at Crowley, who blinked at him from behind dark glasses. It took a moment for the angel’s words to sink in, and when they did, they lodged themselves deep into the hollows of Crowley’s frantic, tender, too-big-for-a-demon heart.

And then he smiled back.

“To family.”

They toasted and drank and sat side by side, hand in hand, on their picnic blanket, watching the fireworks burst and shimmer and fade. Watching the world turn yet again, this strange and bizarre and wretched, twisted, marvellous, incredible world they’d saved together.

They would always watch over it.

It was their home.


End file.
